


The Wedding Gift

by Calais_Reno



Series: Many Happy Returns [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Don't copy to another site, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Mary Morstan/John Watson Break Up, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Tea, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25913971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John and Sherlock receive a wedding gift. The only thing is, they're not getting married.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Happy Returns [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880692
Comments: 86
Kudos: 318





	The Wedding Gift

**Author's Note:**

> As an American who drinks (a lot of) tea, I am aware that many of my countrymen and women do not know the difference between a tea kettle and a tea pot. 
> 
> The kettle is an electric contraption that boils the water for you so you don't have to put a glass measuring cup into the microwave and spill boiling water on yourself as you lift it out. Solitary tea drinkers like me often brew tea by putting a teabag in a cup or mug, pouring boiling water over and letting it steep in the cup/mug.
> 
> A teapot is what you use for making enough tea for more than one person. You spoon an appropriate quantity of tea (or teabags) into the (warmed) pot and let it steep, then pour into cups. The teapot is not electrical, so use a cozy to keep it warm for the second cup. 
> 
> Tea kettles eventually stop working and you buy a new one. Teapots are loved, and go on for years. If you break it, you cry because it's like losing a friend.

John always made the tea.

At first they disagreed about the brand they would buy. Sherlock had always reached for PG Tips out of habit when he went to the shops, only because he hated shopping and hated making up his mind about things like that. It came in a sky-blue box with red and green letters. Easy to spot, and the boxes were large enough that he didn’t have to shop often. He saw no reason to change a habit that seemed to be working just fine.

When John moved in, he brought home Yorkshire Tea, the one with the red label, not the gold. Sherlock noted that the quality of tea had improved since John started making it, and it wasn’t until a month later that he realised why. It was the tea, not John’s magical tea-making skills. But by then Sherlock had commented many times that John made the best tea, even bragging to Mrs Hudson about him, and he didn’t want John to stop making it because John himself _was_ sort of magical, in spite of his ordinary appearance. Why wouldn’t he make magical tea?

Sherlock loved John’s tea, and even was known to eat a piece of toast and an egg, or a half dozen biscuits, when he drank it.

After another month went by, he realised that he loved John, too. He wasn’t sure how John felt, but they got along well, with occasional arguments about what ought to be stored in the fridge, or what hours were appropriate for violin playing, or the one time Sherlock almost blew up the kitchen (for science).

It was like a marriage in many respects. Not the sex part, but all the other parts were all there. They spent most of their free time together, knew each other’s takeaway preferences, and often communicated with looks. He knew when John was upset, and when he was just quiet. And John knew when he needed a cup of tea, and when he needed to go to his Mind Palace. Sometimes Sherlock got it wrong, and John had to explain things to him, but John was infinitely patient and mostly seemed to get angry when someone insulted Sherlock or tried to hurt him.

Sometimes Sherlock loved John so much that it hurt.

John made the tea; Sherlock washed the mugs (and placed them on the shelf, out of the way of chemicals and body parts).

It might have been a perfect marriage (minus sex) if John hadn’t felt the need to go on dates with people other than Sherlock. Ignoring these women was difficult, and restraining himself from sabotaging John’s attempts to find the right woman was even harder. He kept John busy with cases, hoping it was a phase that would pass.

People sometimes made comments, assuming that they were a couple, and John always denied it. Sherlock said nothing. They were a couple, and he knew it.

The dates gradually became fewer, farther between, and then there was a long hiatus. Sherlock noticed that sometimes as they sat in the evening, sipping their final cup of tea, John would give him a fond look, and Sherlock began to hope that it was because John loved him, too.

One morning, just as John turned the kettle on to boil water for the tea, the bell rang. Generally, Mrs Hudson answered the door because she was closer, and because she was something of a busybody who liked to keep an eye (and ear) on anyone who came to visit them. _Just looking out for my boys_ , she always said.

Soon they heard her on the stairs, huffing a bit, and then she appeared at their door, with a package in her arms.

“It’s addressed to you both,” she said, setting it on the table. “No return address. Maybe there’s a card inside.”

She sat down and waited for them to open it.

Sherlock wanted to x-ray it. Unexpected packages without return addresses could be a bomb, especially when addressed to the world’s only consulting detective. John pointed out that it was addressed to both of them, and usually bombs came addressed just to Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson reminded them that she was increasing their security deposit (on account of the last kitchen explosion) and went downstairs.

 _Doctor John H Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes,_ the label read.

Sherlock picked up the box and shook it gently. John ducked under the table. Nothing happened.

John took a knife out of the drawer and prepared to open it.

“Wait!” Sherlock took the knife. “I’ll do it. You’ll destroy the evidence.”

“Evidence? You think this box is evidence of a crime?”

“It’s evidence of something,” Sherlock muttered. He slit the tape and lifted the flaps warily. The box with filled with shredded paper. On top lay an envelope which, again, was addressed to the two of them.

Slitting the envelope with care, Sherlock slipped out the card. On the front was a picture of two swans with their heads bowed together, their necks forming a heart. _On Your Wedding Day_ , the caption said.

Inside there was a verse:

_You’re a very special couple_

_You make the perfect pair_

_This brings a wish for happiness_

_In the future you will share_

There was a handwritten message as well: _Best wishes for a long and happy marriage!_

No signature.

“Must be a mistake,” John said. “Meant for somebody else.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s addressed to us.”

“The store might have made a mistake,” John pointed out.

This did not seem likely. Sherlock studied the handwriting. “Maybe a joke,” he suggested.

John had begun digging through the shredded paper. As Sherlock watched, he pulled a teapot out of the box. A blue teapot, round and chubby, with a curved spout. Just right for two people.

“Well, it’s a nice teapot,” John said.

Sherlock had to agree.

They kept the card and the box and the shredded paper ( _Evidence, John!_ ) and began making their tea in it each morning. At least, John continued making the tea, as always, but instead of dropping a bag in each mug, he put them in the pot and poured their tea once it had steeped. And Sherlock washed the pot, along with the mugs, and placed it on the shelf, out of harm’s way.

It was a mystery. They went through their list of common acquaintances, trying to deduce who would have done it, and why. Mrs Hudson often made suggestive remarks about _the married ones_ in Mrs Turner’s building, but she wasn’t so devious. Lestrade knew all about wedding gifts, having lived through two marriages, but he didn’t particularly seem to care whether they were _together_ or not.

John suggested Mike Stamford, who had introduced them, and actually confronted him about it, but the man denied it. John knew he wasn’t a good liar. Sherlock agreed. Mike suggested that Molly had sent it.

Molly thought it was funny, but said she didn’t have anything to do with it. She was also telling the truth, Sherlock deduced.

John didn’t keep up with people from his school days, or even his army mates. And none of them would spend money on a teapot unless they’d received an invitation. None of them knew Sherlock, either.

Sherlock’s school mates all hated him. For a while he wondered if one of his old nemeses was taunting him, but none of them were smart enough or invested enough to have looked him up, found out who he lived with, and sent them a teapot.

As for relatives, Harry never even sent a card on John’s birthday. Sometimes she called when she was drunk, but that was usually to ask him for money.

Mycroft abhorred sentiment. If he’d given them a teapot, it would never be an ordinary ceramic pot that he could buy at H&M for ten quid. It would be some antique special edition teapot worth thousands of pounds that he’d bought at an exclusive auction for elite buyers. And he would warn them that if they actually used it for making tea, its value would decrease.

That left clients, criminals they’d helped convict, Donovan and Anderson. By definition, all were idiots.

That left no obvious suspects.

John made the tea, Sherlock washed the teapot. The mystery remained, and life went on.

There was something about steeping tea in a pot that was ritualistic, calming. Every morning Sherlock watched as John poured a bit of hot water from the kettle into the pot and swirled it around, warming it before he added the tea. Then he filled the pot, put the lid on, covered it with the cozy Mrs Hudson had given them, and turned his attention to the eggs. Sherlock put bread into the toaster and found the jam and the butter, spreading it on each piece as it popped up.

By then, the eggs were at just the right degree of doneness, the butter had melted into the toast, and the tea was ready to pour.

At other times of day, John would carry the pot into the sitting room and set it on the glass tabletop to steep. If he wasn’t being oblivious, Sherlock helped by bringing their mugs and a packet of biscuits. He added a dollop of milk and two spoons of sugar, sometimes honey, to his cup, and John added just milk to his. Once the tea was poured, they sat, savouring the subtle aroma.

Sherlock couldn’t even remember how he’d thought dropping a teabag in a (clean?) mug and pouring almost-boiling water over it was making tea.

John brought home a box of oolong, which they both loved, and Sherlock found some lapsang souchong, which was pretty good with eggs and bacon, but better with Szechuan eggplant or spicy noodles. Earl Grey was nice in the afternoon, but English Breakfast ruled in the morning.

They rarely had guests, so this became their own ritual. The tea, the savouring, the washing up.

* * *

John sometimes thought about marriage. He’d never reached the point of asking someone, or even found someone he wanted to ask, but he had always assumed that someday he’d meet the right person and settle down.

He’d dated women when he first moved in with Sherlock, which was fun at first, but eventually he found himself thinking about Sherlock while he was out with a woman, or even hoping Sherlock would suddenly need him for a case. When Jeanette said, _You’re a great boyfriend. And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man,_ he realised what the problem was. For all practical purposes, he was already married— to Sherlock.

The other problem was, of course, that he wasn’t gay. Or at least he had never seen any evidence that he was. Men had never been his area. And Sherlock didn’t have an area— men or women. He was already married— to his work.

But John was happy with whatever it was that they had, whether it was stalking criminals or trying to keep his flatmate from shooting holes in the wall. Sometimes he could see himself growing old with Sherlock. Sitting by a fire, reading a book, simply talking to one other were simple comforts he had begun to appreciate. He imagined himself getting up to make them some tea, Sherlock laughing about the old teapot, now an old friend, whose mystery he had never solved. If John were lucky, he might have that life.

John Watson had never been lucky. It did no good to remember this after Sherlock died, though.

He stayed in the flat for a few weeks, and every time he dropped the teabags in the pot, he remembered. _Tea for one_ , now. After doing this for several days, catching himself as he automatically grabbed the second mug from the shelf, he washed the teapot and put it back into its box with all the shredded paper and the card, and he taped it up. When he moved out, he took the box and put it in the back of the closet in his new flat. He stopped making tea, drank only coffee.

When a year had gone by, he took the teapot out and looked at it. He thought about giving it away, maybe to a charity shop. He read the card again, and cried a bit. He grieved for Sherlock, for their cosy evenings and lazy mornings, for their friendship. The teapot reminded him of all of that. He had felt more, and that had confused him, but he now understood that Sherlock was the most significant relationship he’d ever had. He loved Sherlock, and he’d never said.

He held the teapot in his hands, letting himself grieve for all he’d lost. Then he packed the box up and put it back in the closet.

A year and a half after he lost Sherlock (became a widower), he met a woman. She was pretty and funny and knew how to sweetly bully him into doing things that actually made him feel alive again. He asked her out (at least, he remembered it that way, though it might have been the other way around), and after a few dates, she asked him to move in with her.

There wasn’t a lot to move. As he carried in the box with the teapot, she asked, “What’s that?”

“This? It’s a teapot.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask to see it. Though he didn’t know why, it felt private, like the stories he used to write about Sherlock, not the ones for his blog. She had found them and read them and giggled a bit, but assured him that they were wonderful, adorable, and that Sherlock must have been brilliant. He kept them in his lockbox, with his old army things and a few other mementos of his past life. The teapot was too big to fit inside. Making sure the box was taped up, he pushed it to the back of the closet. He especially didn’t want her to see the card.

“You drink coffee,” she said.

“Yeah, I used to drink tea, but now I prefer coffee,” he said.

She shrugged.

Mary was a chance at happiness, he decided. He needed someone to pull him out of his unhappiness and keep him moving forward. When he asked her about children, she was agreeable. He asked this casually, as they were walking by group of children in school uniforms, but afterwards he realised that now she would expect him to propose.

Maybe he should. He owed her a lot. Not as much as he’d owed Sherlock, but considering all the alternatives, Mary was the best thing that could have happened. He’d known her six months. It was time to move ahead, perhaps, to get on with his life and put the past behind him.

He bought a ring, made a reservation at the Landmark on Marylebone. A nice evening, some champagne, and he would pop the question. And life would go on.

* * *

Thinking about it afterwards, Sherlock realised he’d made mistakes, underestimating John’s feelings being the most significant one. Clearly, he’d misgauged the situation.

John sitting at an empty table, looking at a ring box. The woman who walked confidently towards him, wearing a smile of ownership. That ridiculous moustache. The entire atmosphere, much too fancy for _his_ John. And Sherlock, with a fake moustache and borrowed glasses, thinking that humour was a good approach to letting his best friend know he wasn’t dead.

Clearly the woman— he’d already forgotten her name— had manipulated John into proposing. Without Sherlock’s interference, he surely would have gone through with it. When he thought of all the boring women he’d had to ward off, just to be sure John didn’t make a mistake, he realised what a mistake it had been to leave him alone.

When he finally took a good look at her, he saw what he’d missed. She wasn’t boring. Not at all. She was a liar, a very good one, and a person with secrets. And John was so angry, he was likely to go through with it, just to spite Sherlock. If that happened, he might never see him again.

Too tired to think of a plan, he returned to Baker Street, where he’d already given Mrs Hudson a heart attack, almost. When he was on his secret tour of the Balkans, he used to think of John every night when he tried to sleep, remembering every detail about him. He fell asleep, imagining John was patching up his lip and the cut under his eye, telling him that he was sorry, that he’d make some tea now….

In the morning he woke up and for a moment he imagined John in the kitchen, making the tea. Then he remembered.

He dragged himself out of bed. First, he’d see Molly. Since she knew he was alive, she wouldn’t be likely to hit him. Next, he’d find Graham and surprise him. He might be angry, too, considering all the trouble he’d been in after Sherlock killed himself. But he was fairly sure that Lestrade didn’t hold grudges.

In the kitchen, he opened the cabinet, hoping there were a few tea bags left. They’d be stale, but better than—

The teapot was gone.

John had taken most of this things from the flat when he moved out— months ago, Mrs Hudson told him. His clothing, his books, his RAMC mug.

_Why had he taken the teapot?_

The teapot belonged to both of them. A mistake, a joke— whatever had brought that box to their door all those years ago, it was _their_ teapot. Not Sherlock’s. Not John’s.

He glanced at the time. Six a.m. He didn’t know John’s schedule, but he would text him anyway. If he was in bed with the liar, so much the better.

_— Where is the teapot? SH_

The reply did not come immediately. While he waited, Sherlock made coffee from an old jar of instant that he found in the cupboard. He paced the floor. Nothing else was missing, as far as he could see.

Finally, he heard his phone ping.

— _I have it_

_— I want it. SH_

_— It’s not yours_

_— No, it’s ours. SH_

_— Why should you have it?_

_— Because it’s a wedding gift. SH_

_— We didn’t actually get married, you know_

_— Irrelevant. It was given to both of us, and it isn’t right for you to use it with anyone else. SH_

He had to rephrase that text a few times, trying to make it sound less petty, but there wasn’t any way. He was being petty, and he didn’t care. John was _not_ going to make tea in their pot and pour it into that woman’s cup.

_— I’m not. She doesn’t drink tea. Only coffee._

_— Nevertheless SH_

_— We can talk later. I’ve got to go to work._

And that was where they left it.

John stopped by after work. “All right, I have an idea.”

“No,” he said. “You’re marrying someone else. Get your own teapot.”

“I have just as much right to it as you do.”

“You’re not even using it. She drinks coffee, and you’ve given up tea.” He smirked a bit, to reinforce his point. He hadn’t actually deduced that John had stopped drinking tea, but it was a good guess, given how sentimental John was. He’d taken the teapot out of sentiment, but that same sentiment prevented him from using it.

“We could give it to someone,” John said. “Maybe Mrs Hudson.”

“She has a tea set. I want it.”

“Sherlock, be reasonable. It belongs to both of us. Since we’re not together, neither of us should have it.”

“No. I will actually use it to make tea, because I drink tea. If you want to use it, I’ll give you visitation rights.”

“That’s ridiculous. And it’s not the point,” John said. He was starting to glare now each time he spoke. This was not going well. “The only fair thing to do is share it back and forth, or give it to someone else.” He shook his head. “Jesus. It’s just a teapot, Sherlock. I’ll buy you a new one if you want.”

“I don’t want a new teapot. I want _our_ old one.”

John hadn’t even sat down, but was already heading for the door. “Later, then. When you’re ready to be reasonable, we can talk. Right now, though, I can’t do this.”

He didn’t say goodbye.

* * *

John didn’t hear from Sherlock. Knowing how stubborn he was, he didn’t expect to. What he expected was for Sherlock to break into his flat and steal the teapot. He thought about putting a chain on the door, but decided to wait and see if he called.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d refused to give him the teapot. Everything Sherlock deduced was true. Mary drank coffee, and John did too. Sherlock would use it. That was part of what rankled him, at least, the thought of Sherlock at Baker Street, making tea in their teapot. Maybe he’d get a new flatmate and share tea with him. Maybe he’d actually get married and have sex with his husband— in the kitchen— making tea afterwards to celebrate.

For some reason, imagining this made John feel physically ill. (If he hadn’t been so angry, he might have thought about that.)

John was getting married. He didn’t need a teapot. And they’d probably get twelve teapots as wedding presents. He didn’t know how these things worked, but it seemed like most wedding gifts were the last thing a couple needed— juicers, picture frames, ugly vases, silver champagne buckets.

But he wanted the teapot. He wondered if he should talk to his therapist about that.

He went out to the shops one Saturday to buy the items that Mary had put on the list. She was very organised about things like that, and he knew better than to go out to buy one thing he’d thought of without first looking at the list.

Returning an hour later, laden with heavy bags, he found Mary in the living room. She was dressed to go somewhere. Maybe a birthday party. That was it, he remembered. Someone’s birthday, a girl thing. A tea party—

With horror, he recognised what she was holding in her hand. The teapot. His and Sherlock’s teapot.

“Hi, love,” she said, giving him her sweetest smile. “Claire asked if we had a teapot I could bring this afternoon. Sort of a garden party, with tea and sandwiches. I assumed you wouldn’t mind—“

“No!” He dropped the groceries on the floor and ran to her. He clasped the teapot to his chest, panting with anxiety. “You can’t have it.”

She was still holding the handle. “Why not? You never use it. And even if you did—“

“It belongs to me. And Sherlock. It was a gift.”

She smirked. “You’re marrying me, not him.”

“Give it to me, Mary. You can’t borrow it.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s not even an expensive one.”

“It’s not yours.” His voice wobbled. “I don’t want you to use it.”

Her face twisted with annoyance. “Fine.” She pushed it at him.

The lid flew off. He was clutching the teapot so hard, he didn’t react quickly enough to catch it. Stumbling backwards, he landed hard on the floor, still protecting the teapot, just as the top hit the floor and broke.

He stared at it for a moment. Then he gingerly picked up the two pieces— no, three. One had a tiny chip as well, so even if he glued it—

A choked sob emerged from his throat, and then he was crying. For a moment he just sat there, tears rolling down his face, sobs wracking his chest.

Mary sighed and sat down. “John. This is ridiculous.”

Recovering himself a bit, he carefully placed the pieces inside the teapot, then crawled over the floor looking for the missing chip. When he couldn’t find it, he stood, holding the teapot. “I need glue.”

“We don’t have any.” She raised her chin.

He registered that she was angry, but it didn’t matter.

“Then I’m going to the shop to get some.” He glared at her. “Don’t touch it.”

He carefully put it back in the box and taped it shut.

“It isn’t worth it,” she said. “You might as well just buy another one.”

He held a finger up. “Don’t. Touch.”

He went to three shops before he found the right kind of adhesive for ceramic. He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes gone, and he was ten minutes from home.

What if she’d binned it? What if she _accidentally_ dropped the box?

He ran all the way home.

She hadn’t binned it. He checked it to make sure she hadn’t dropped it, took the pieces of the top, and fit them together.

Mary sat in her chair, drinking a cup of coffee, watching with amusement as he applied a thin ribbon of glue to each surface and pressed them together. When he was done, the chip was visible. It was like a scar, reminding him how he had wounded the teapot. He thought about putting a drop of blue paint there, but decided it would look tacky. And it wouldn’t change what had happened.

“I’m going to my party,” she said when he was done. “Have fun with your teapot.”

 _I’m not going to marry you,_ he whispered after the door closed.

* * *

Sherlock was going to make a cup of tea for himself, _dammit_. He was washing out his mug, scrubbing it with cleansing powder to make sure the coffee taste was gone. He’d put water in the kettle and set it to boil, and he’d gone out to buy sugar and a packet of Yorkshire Red. He could make his own perfect cup of tea without John’s help, without the bloody teapot.

He’d decided he didn’t want the teapot back. It would only provoke memories that he’d soon have to put behind him. All his daydreams about returning to John, sitting across from him at breakfast or in the evening, his smiles and the way he laughed, the way he took care of Sherlock, handing him a cup of tea with one hand while slipping a plate of toast in front of him with his other, the way he sang tunelessly while waiting for the water to boil— all would need to be packed up and stored in his Mind Palace. John could keep the teapot. Sherlock would scrub his mind of all of it, more thoroughly than he was scrubbing his mug.

He had forgotten that the the inside of his mug had once been white, like the outside. Now it gleamed like new. He opened the packet, selected a teabag, sniffed it. Yes, very good tea, very fresh. The water was boiling. He dropped the bag into his mug and filled it with hot water.

Watching his tea steep, he realised he had no idea how long the bag ought to remain in the cup. When John was sick once, Sherlock had made him tea, and he complained that it was bitter, probably because it had steeped too long.

He googled it. Two minutes was the consensus. When exactly two minutes had passed, he removed the bag and gave it a squeeze.

Wait— was he supposed to squeeze it? Did John squeeze the bags when he took them out of the pot? He was pretty sure he didn’t leave them in the pot.

Well, it was too late to do anything about it. He hadn’t squeezed it dry, so maybe it would be fine.

Having produced a perfect-looking cup of tea, he inhaled the steam. Unlike coffee, tea did not produce a room-filling aroma, and it never seemed to linger on clothes the way coffee did. He could always tell when John had stopped for a coffee somewhere, but tea, not so much.

The tea smelled nice— fragrant, almost floral. The colour was reddish-gold. He added a dollop of milk and two teaspoons of sugar, as always, and stirred. Then he brought it into the sitting room and sat in his chair, preparing himself for a treat. It had been a long time since he’d had a cup of English tea. All over Europe people drank tea, but nowhere did it taste like home.

He sipped. The perfect temperature, the right amount of tannin on his tongue.

But it was wrong. It looked like tea, had a tea-like aroma. But it was flat. It tasted like cardboard. Or sawdust.

He made a second cup, steeping two minutes exactly, this time without squeezing the bag. It was like drinking hot tap water.

Maybe he should have squeezed the bag more, not less. He repeated the experiment, this time squeezing the bag thoroughly.

Then he tried steeping it longer, then shorter, timing each attempt.

He poured the water before it actually boiled (though he was sure that John never did that), and he tried using bottled water.

Maybe the kettle was to blame. After all, it hadn’t been used for almost two years. He scrubbed it out, rinsed it thoroughly, and started again.

He checked the barometric pressure in the room, which might affect how long it took the water to boil. He checked the temperature and the humidity level.

One bag, two bags; a larger mug, a smaller mug, ceramic mug, glass mug, china cup; more sugar, less sugar, no sugar.

He opened several bags and studied the contents under his microscope. Every bag contained the same mixture of powdered tea, leaf and stem bits. He tasted a pinch, used his tongue to explore its texture. He crushed it, sifted it, tried to divine its secrets.

After an hour of experimenting, he went downstairs and asked Mrs Hudson if he could fill his kettle from her tap.

“What’s wrong with your water?” she asked. “Shall I call the utilities people?”

“Nothing. No. Just an experiment.”

She smiled. “Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea?”

Two hours later, he had _not_ made the perfect cup of tea. He’d made seventy-eight cups of awful tea. He’d gone through an entire box of Yorkshire Red, and every cup looked perfect, but none of them tasted right. Even Mrs Hudson’s tea was off, disappointingly like the tea people served in styrofoam cups (shudder).

This was going to take several days to unravel, but he was determined. It was just chemistry, aided by physics. Science would eventually provide the answer.

He heard the front door bang and feet on the stairs. No key, so he knew who it was.

John burst through the door, holding a box. _The_ box. Out of breath, distressed. “Sherlock—“

“No.” He rose, crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want it.”

“But, Sherlock—“

“No. Take it away.”

"But--"

“It’s just a teapot, John. That’s what you said. If you don’t want it, give it to charity. Throw it in the bin. Smash it to bits and bury it in the garden. I don’t care.”

Stunned into silence, John stood motionless. He licked his lips, turned his head to the side and blinked.

Sherlock stepped towards him. “I. Don’t. Care.”

John fled.

It was curious. Though he’d been so stubborn about the teapot (increasingly stubborn as they’d argued about it)— John had abruptly changed his mind for no obvious reason. He’d come back with the box, obviously intending to leave it with Sherlock, not to negotiate. There was no other reason for him to bring it all the way from the suburbs. What could have caused him to change his mind?

Sherlock recognised his own anger. He’d just spent hours trying to replicate a simple cup of tea, without success. And that was a diversion, he realised. The teapot was the bone of contention between them, but it wasn’t the real issue. The real problem remained to be deduced.

John’s face. Not grim and determined, but distressed. His eyes, red, swollen, watery. Had he been crying? He’d seen John Watson in pain, he’d seen him terrified (usually because Sherlock had once again overestimated his own invincibility), and he’d seen him enraged. Never once had he seen him cry.

Even when he watched John at his grave and heard what he said, there had been no actual tears. Tight control, choked out words, but no tears.

It was possible that something had happened at home, with Mary. Had they broken up? Would that make John cry?

He’d observed John with many women since they’d met. He seemed to enjoy dating, but never became overly attached to any of them. Breaking up made him philosophical, not morose. Certainly not distraught.

Distraught. That was how he’d looked. What had Mary done?

Sighing, he looked around. The kitchen was a mess. Deconstructed tea bags, multiple mugs, teaspoons, sugar, notes— all sprinkled with sodden tea leaves. He needed a cup of tea so he could think.

Speedy’s made decent tea, he knew. He would go down and buy a cup. It could not be any worse than the seventy-eight cups of tea he’d tasted today.

He slipped into his coat and headed down the stairs, thinking he’d better stop and buy some different kinds of tea. Maybe he could make a tolerable oolong, or Earl Grey. Maybe loose tea would be better quality than the stuff they put in bags.

Before he was halfway down, he stopped. John was sitting on the bottom step, the box on the floor in front of him. His head was bent over the box, forlorn.

Sherlock continued down, but John did not move. Sitting down next to him, he said, “John.”

“It’s broken.”

“You mean— you and Mary?”

John sighed. “Well, that too. I meant the teapot. The top’s broken. I tried to fix it, but you can still tell.” He sniffed and rubbed his eyes.

“Let me see.”

John shrugged, so Sherlock opened the box and lifted it out of the shredded paper. He could see that the top had two cracks, and a chip was missing. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

“It’s my fault. I kept it safe for two years, while you were gone, and then Mary was going to use it— we argued. She thought I was being ridiculous. She was angry, and she pushed it at me, and I dropped it.”

“But you fixed it. And the pot itself is fine. It’s not unusable.”

John heaved a sigh. “She came back later. She said I need to think about what I want, that I obviously care more about you than I do about her. _Choose_ , she said. So I did.” He looked up at Sherlock. “I chose you.”

“Do you… want to come back? Here— with me?”

John nodded. “I don’t exactly understand it, though.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“I don’t think I’m gay. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. The only thing I’m sure about is that I love you. I’m in love with you. Does that make me gay?”

Sherlock paused before speaking. “Maybe it’s not an either-or thing. Maybe we’re all potentially gay, potentially straight. It’s about whom we love.”

John sighed again, then turned to look at Sherlock. “Well, that’s the part I’m sure about, so I guess it’s fine. I do love you.”

“Of course it’s fine. And I’m sure that I love you.”

“Do you?” John chuckled softly. “I thought you were married to your work.”

Sherlock nodded towards the box. “The card did not say _Mr Sherlock Holmes and The Work._ It said _Dr John H Watson and Mr Sherlock Holmes._ Evidence, John.”

“But we’re not married. We don’t even know who sent that.”

“True. But whoever sent that teapot perceived something we ourselves did not. And statistically, one individual’s expressed perception reflects a minimum of nine other individuals who perceive the same thing.”

“You mean, most of the people we know _saw_ it, even though we didn’t.”

“Mrs Hudson, obviously. Mycroft was expecting a happy announcement before anyone. Mike, Molly— they did not seem surprised when we told them about the present. I never said anything to Lestrade, but he started a pool at the Yard, betting on when we would finally declare ourselves… what do people declare about these things?”

“Together,” said John. “And we really were together, now that I think about it.”

“Until I left you.” He took John’s hand in his. “I don’t know how to apologise for that. I did it to protect you, but I didn’t count the cost. I really didn’t think you would move on. That’s horrible to say. As if I wanted you to grieve for two years. What I mean is, I should have known. If I had thought it through, I wouldn’t have behaved so badly at the restaurant, trying to make a joke of it. Your reaction took me by surprise.”

“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have hit you. God, Sherlock, what a horrible thing for me to do— I don’t even know what you went through while you were gone.”

“I’ll tell you, but let’s save that for another day.” He picked up the box and stood. “Let’s have a cup of tea.”

John followed him up the stairs, into the flat, and gaped at the mess. “What did you do, Sherlock?”

“Actually, I was trying to make a cup of tea.” He felt his face flushing. “It’s not as easy as I supposed.”

John was peering into the kettle. “This looks all right. I’ll start the water, and you can bin this mess."

Sherlock shook the box the tea came in. “Oh. Two bags left.”

“That’s enough. I’ll go to the store later, after we see what we’ll need.”

Sherlock cleaned up the mess, washed the mugs; John made the tea.

When they were sitting in their chairs, facing one another, Sherlock took a sip. “Perfect. I’m not sure what I was doing wrong, but every cup I made came out tasting like dishwater.”

John smiled. “There’s a secret ingredient.” He stood, came around the table, and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

He felt his heart starting to pound. “You never did _that_ before when you made tea.”

John kissed him again, on the lips this time. “I did. Every time I made you a cup, I was thinking, _I love you._ ”

* * *

It was after midnight. They lay in bed, nested like two teaspoons. And John was certain that _gay_ and _straight_ were just labels that didn’t matter, as long as there was love. They had proved that several times already.

“We should get married,” Sherlock murmured.

“Should we?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I do. It’s just— well, it feels as if we already are. We’re in love, and a wedding just means a lot of planning— the invitations, the flowers, the photographer—“

“We don’t have to do all of that, you know.”

“—the wedding gifts,” says John. “We might get a new teapot.”

“I’m very fond of the old one, cracked lid and all.”

“So am I. And I know we don’t have to make a big production out of it, but I want to stand in front of all our friends and say that I love you, and hear you say it.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said, spooning himself more closely. “Marry me, John.“

John kissed him. “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> The next story in this series will be posted next Saturday, August 22.  
> It takes place on a stormy night during Sherlock's absence, in the A&E where John is working.  
> If you want to be notified, subscribe to the series, or to me.


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